


Full of Beauty and Terror

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Third Star (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Cancer, Comfort/Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusion with the movie<i>Third Star</i>. Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft take a trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full of Beauty and Terror

**Author's Note:**

> If you've not seen _Third Star_ you can find a very short summary [here](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1510906/plotsummary) and a more in depth summary [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_Star#Plot%22). I have been sitting on this story for almost a year now because I had considered extending the fusion to include the whole movie, but I've never gotten around to it and figured I'd post what I had. (In case you're wondering, it's just the last bit of the film.)

“Put me down.”

“What?” John panted. “Sherlock, you can’t walk up this hill.”

“And you can’t carry me anymore-- your legs are practically shaking. Put. Me. Down.” Sherlock punctuated his words with a light kick to John’s thighs.

“I’ll take a turn,” Lestrade volunteered, and John sighed before stopping and bending down so that Sherlock could slide off his back; Lestrade walked over to stand in John’s place, and after an awkward moment of half-jumping, half-scrambling up his back, Sherlock adjusted his grip around Lestrade’s shoulders. (John, he noticed, look far less tired than he had a few moments before.)

Mycroft’s voice broke in: “Shall we go on?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered, and they began the task of climbing up the hill once again.

Sherlock’s thoughts drifted between dream and reality, helped along by the lack of sleep the night before. He ended up at the beach, a dark silhouette against the grey-blue skyline; the simple continuity of the waves lulled him until the ever-present pain dulled to a faint echo.

The fragile thread of the dream was snapped when Sherlock’s mind registered the sensation of falling, his entire world exploding into bright, over-stimulating pain as he hit the ground. He didn’t realise he’d cried out until the sound of it reached his ears, a sharp, crisp note that rang in his head.

He dimly recognised John’s voice, commanding him to breathe in; Sherlock gripped his hand and tried to follow the instruction, lungs heaving with aborted breaths.  _ In, out _ , his mind coached him, so Sherlock sucked in air and held it before letting it out in a gust. Finally, the haze of pain began to clear, retreating through his body back to the source, where his leg throbbed.

“Well. Are we finished with this ridiculous idea, now? Do you realise that there isn’t any possible way to get to the end without breaking ourselves?”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” John said sharply. “We’ll be fine.” He caught Sherlock’s eye, as if to ask  _ Right? _ and Sherlock twitched his lips in a tiny smile.  _ Yes. _

“Lestrade, you’re generally a sensible man. You have to recognise the futility of this... _ trip _ .”

Lestrade looked over at them hesitantly. “I don’t know.”

Mycroft sighed in frustration, and opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him off.

“You carry him for a bit.”

“Don’t pretend that you can tell me what to-”

“Oh just shut it,” John demanded angrily. “and bloody carry him. This isn’t about you right now, Mycroft. He’s your  _ brother _ .”

“No.”

John stood and stalked over to Mycroft, the air around him appearing to crackle with fury; he didn’t stop until he stood chest to chest with Mycroft, the tilt of his head to look the other man in the eye doing nothing to lessen how intimidating he looked. “I don’t care what you think of this trip, Mycroft; I don’t even care if you want to be here. It’s what Sherlock wanted, and he actually asked you along, God knows why. So don’t you dare take the coward’s way out of this. Pick. Him. Up.”

After a long, heavy beat, Mycroft bowed his head slightly and stepped around John, steps slow and measured as he made his way to Sherlock. A hand was offered, and Sherlock gripped it tightly as he stood.

“Lestrade, would you please help Sherlock onto my back?”

Their progress continued, slow but steady. As they neared the top of the hill, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the ocean, glittering like shards of glass in the sun. 

“There it is,” Lestrade said, breathless from the trek.“Barafundle Bay.”

“Beats the pictures, that’s for certain,” John remarked.

Mycroft stopped and Sherlock readjusted his grip around his brother’s neck, viewing the inlet with a critical eye. “Actually, this isn’t the one I was thinking of,” he finally said, still staring at the ocean and the promise it held.

John’s laugh was worth the weak attempt at humour, and broke the layer of discomfort that had fallen over them; Lestrade slung his pack back onto his shoulder and walked past them, and they started the walk down the hill with a new confidence in each step that came with finally having their destination in sight.

At the bottom the wide blades of the seagrass began to peter out, replaced with sand that leaked into their shoes. Lestrade began to walk faster, until he was running down the beach, arms spread out like wings to his side. Mycroft moved as quickly as he could, but by the time they made it to where the sand grew dark and wet Sherlock was itching to feel the cool kiss of water against his skin; when Sherlock’s feet touched down, he only paused to tear off his shoes before he waded into the sea, ignoring the burn of his leg.

John had splashed in after Lestrade, and even Mycroft had deigned to get wet; Sherlock felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth and laughed freely when in a display of boyish behaviour, John catapulted himself onto Lestrade’s shoulders, causing both of them to drop underwater and come up sputtering.  _ This, _ he thought, watching the light dance on John’s skin.  _ This is what I wanted. A good end. _

Sherlock stayed in the water until his legs went numb, long after the others had collapsed onto the warm sand. He wanted this, his last day, to be full and bright in his mind, so he stayed in the water until every memory was blazingly vibrant in colour.

Mycroft was waiting for him on the beach, still managing to look imperious in sodden clothes. 

“Is it what you were hoping for?” 

Sherlock turned his head to look at the sea again. “Yes. Not that it matters to you.”

Mycroft narrowed his gaze. “It’s the wrong decision, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned his attention to his brother once more. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said firmly, and began limping away, toward where John and Lestrade were struggling to get the tent set up in the breeze. He only got a few steps away before Mycroft reached out and caught hold of his arm; Sherlock stopped and looked back at his brother. 

“Let me go.”

Mycroft held his eye and didn’t release him. “It’s the wrong decision,” he repeated emphatically. 

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “You of all people should know that it is exactly the  _ right _ decision.”

“I won’t support you on it, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, fingers tightening around Sherlock’s arm.

“I don’t need you to,” came the cold reply, and with that Sherlock yanked his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp before turning his back and continuing to walk away, head held high out of stubbornness.

* * *

  
  


That night they had a fire, orange flames rising from the wood John and Lestrade had dragged across the shore. Bright embers sparked in the darkness. Sherlock absently tended to it with a stick, but his gaze continued to be drawn to the sea, a dark expanse barely illuminated by the weak moonlight. His heart rate was elevated, his palms slightly sweaty in a physiological response to the uptick of adrenaline in his veins.  _ Just say it, _ he admonished himself; there was no reason to be nervous.

“I think it’s more interesting with half the page missing,” John remarked, squinting down at his book.

“I’m going to go for a swim,” Sherlock said, words tumbling over themselves in a rush to get out, and held his breath as John looked up.

“Your mum said you-”

“I know,” Sherlock said, but reinforced his words with a fine ribbon of steel. “Tomorrow I’m going to swim out into the bay, and I’m not coming back.” There was silence, only broken by the crackle of the fire, and Sherlock’s gaze flickered between John and Lestrade. “I know the enormity of this, but I am asking you to let me swim.”

John stared back, blinking, and Lestrade’s mouth opened slightly; out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw Mycroft avert his eyes and drop his head.

“No,” John said finally, tone incredulous.

Lestrade spoke next. “Sherlock, we just can’t do that. Why-”

“You can,” Sherlock interrupted firmly. “The question is: will you?”

Lestrade looked up, shook his head. “Has this been your plan all along?”

Sherlock nodded, a silent confirmation, and refused to let regret worm it’s way into his chest.

“I thought you wanted to live. Why-”

Sherlock gestured to his body, the leg that was propped up in an attempt to alleviate the hurt, the face he knew showed the toll of the past year, more-visible bones and dark shadows underneath his eyes. “Because this is what my life is going to be like! Because of the pain, and the drugs, and the drugs I take for the side-effects of the other drugs. Because I can barely spend a few hours on a case before I’m too tired to keep on.” Sherlock took a breath, then let it out in a shaky gust of air. “You’ve seen it. It’s only going to get worse. All I need to work is my brain,” he continued, motioning to his head, “but it takes over. Gradually, of course, but I’ll slip further into thinking solely about  _ pain _ . And that…that’s not worth living for.”

There was a long (heavy, crushing, uncertain) moment of nothing before Lestrade cleared his throat.

“I don’t know what they pain’s like but surely-”

“What?” Sherlock demanded.  _ What possible solution could there be? Terminal cancer doesn’t just go away. _

“I don’t know. But… we can’t let you swim, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied.

“Stop saying you  _ can’t _ ,” Sherlock said sharply, the words a thin, bitter blade. “You can-- but you won’t.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft, but his brother wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“What would we say to your mum-” Lestrade began, but was cut off by John.

“This is insane! I can’t believe you’re talking about it normally!”

“The same as you’d say to the police,” Sherlock began, words wavering but still speaking over John’s protest. “That when you woke, I’d gone. You checked the dunes, and then you saw something floating in the water-- that you came to get me, but it was too late. One of you had to run up to the headland to the emergency phone.” He paused. “You wouldn’t be alone long.”

“But I’d know, when I saw your parents, that they could’ve said goodbye properly-”

“Are you blind as well as stupid, Lestrade?” Sherlock snapped. “There won’t  _ be _ a better goodbye than the one we had.”

“There will,” John said stubbornly. “It’s not time, Sherlock, and this isn’t some  _ fucking _ experiment, you don’t just get to quit living!”

“I’ve haven’t felt as alive as I do now in ages, John, and I doubt I will ever again. What would be the point in returning to London, in staying at home, spending more and more time in bed until I finally decided to overdose?  _ That _ would be quitting!” Sherlock inhaled sharply, then let it out slowly in the wake of his outburst. “If I swim out and the sea takes me,” he began again, making a motion with his hand to resemble the waves, “it’s different. I’d be making the choice. I want to be conscious until I’m gone. I want to feel something, even if it’s the pain of saltwater in my lungs. I want...I want to feel the fight.” He clenched his fingers into a fist. “Something huge, and terrifying, and just as exhilarating as the Game.”

“I promised your mum I’d bring you back,” John said, a plain denial.

Lestrade also voiced a rejection. “Sorry, Sherlock.”

In one last attempt, Sherlock turned his gaze to Mycroft, who finally lifted his head and met his eyes, but the slow, unhesitant shake of his head made Sherlock turn away; his chest felt hollow with sadness, and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

“Okay,” he choked out. “Okay. It was too much to ask.” He stumbled up and limped to the tent, where he laid down and let himself cry, though he held himself stiffly and didn’t allow his body to shake like it wanted. He considered doing it anyway - if he left in the middle of the night, no one would be able to stop him - but knew that he wouldn’t, even if the reason why couldn’t be found amongst the numbed feelings that spread through his limbs.

* * *

 

Fire licked through his veins, burning the muscles and bone, turning them to cinder as it raged through his body, engulfing him. “Ohhh  _ Christ _ ,” Sherlock moaned, and clutched at his leg, unable to breathe through the wildfire inside him.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was sleep-heavy, and Sherlock distantly realized he must be moving around, looking for something, but  _ oh God it hurts, it hurts, like someone stabbing me with a glowing poker, make it stop make it stop make it _

“What’s going on?”  _ Lestrade _ .

John scrambled out of the tent and Sherlock bit down on his lip with a whimper.

“I’ve lost the bag, the silver one with his meds,” John said frantically from outside. “It must have dropped out.”

Lestrade woke Mycroft with a rough shove and began shuffling out of the tent; his foot bumped against Sherlock’s leg and Sherlock cried out.

“Oh hell, sorry,” Lestrade cursed, as Sherlock’s fingers scratched against the denim of his jeans.  _ If only I could reach inside, make it stop, oh christ make it stop please. _

“He doesn’t have any morphine,” John continued, hushing his voice.

“‘m not deaf,” Sherlock bit out, and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“We’ll find it,” came Lestrade’s voice, definitive and sure, and Sherlock heard him and Mycroft run off into the dark as John re-entered the tent.

“They’re gonna find it, Sherlock. Just hang in there, okay?” John reassured, and Sherlock opened his eyes to pin him with a stare.

“They don’t...know where it was dropped,” he growled. “The chances - ohhh hell - the chances of them finding it are-”

“Shut up,” John retorted. “Just shut up and take my hand,” he said, and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, entwining their fingers; Sherlock instinctively squeezed, trying to alleviate the pain, but it was still there, stabbing and flooding  _ like poison and a gunshot all at the same time, making my breath catch in my chest and my thoughts flee from the overwhelming agony of it and why the fuck won’t it just STOP _ . He tried to move away from it, like the pain was only there because he was occupying a certain piece of space, but howled when it simply flared in response; everything disappeared after, noise and sight and smell and time all obliterated and replaced with blinding white pain, passing through every nerve and occupying every cell.

“Oh God…” he gasped. “Enough! I can’t….God! Please,  _ fucking please make it stop! _ ” he begged, pleaded. “I’ll do anything, just make it  _ go away, _ I can’t-”  _ breathe think oh god oh god,  _ “Please!”

“Sherlock, c’mon, here.” 

Sherlock peeled his eyes open, chest heaving with aborted breaths, to see a familiar bottle being held to his mouth.  _ Morphine _ . John’s hand supported the back of his neck as he leaned forward and placed the rim of the bottle to his lips; he’d never liked the taste of morphine (bitter, cloying) but as it went down his throat Sherlock gasped in relief. He felt something sticking to his arm, and guessed that John had also administered a patch.

“Oh God,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh God.”  _ It’ll be over soon. _

“You’ll be alright,” John said, brushing Sherlock’s fringe off his forehead. “You’ll be alright.”

Sherlock opened his mouth - to argue and say  _ no, I will never be alright, people with cancer (people like me) don’t get to be alright _ \- but John shushed him and covered him in a blanket.

“Let the medicine work. Get some sleep,” he said softly, and Sherlock felt his eyes close against his will.

* * *

 

When Sherlock woke again, his throat felt raw from screaming and his leg was throbbing with each breath, though it was nothing in comparison to before. The others were still sleeping, and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling of the tent, listening; past the breathing of the three other men, he could hear the soft whistle of wind against the side of the tent, the waves gently rolling up against the shore.  _ In, and out. Unchanging. _

“You okay?” Lestrade asked, voice rough with sleep. Sherlock halfway rolled over to look at him, and blinked.

“No,” he admitted, so quietly he wasn’t sure Lestrade would hear. But Lestrade sighed and nodded, like he’d been expecting that answer, before ruffling his hair. 

“You wanna get out of this tent? Look at the sea?”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the emotion that flooded him when he thought of the sea, of watching its endless continuity, feeling the grainy sand beneath his feet and tasting the salt on the wind. He nodded, and Lestrade wiggled out of his sleeping bag, then opened the tent flap with a low rasp of the zipper. Quietly, Lestrade crawled out; Sherlock batted Lestrade’s hands away when he tried to help Sherlock do the same, but resigned himself to accepting assistance when his leg shrieked at him with the first attempt to move it. “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, and dug his nails into the palm of his hand.  _ Breathe it out, think past the pain. In, and out. _

“Shit, okay, easy,” Lestrade soothed, and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Easy, lad. Let me just…” he trailed off and his hands began lifting Sherlock from the armpits, slightly dragging him and the blanket out of the tent where they collapsed in a heap, Lestrade sitting and Sherlock slumped against his chest. Sherlock breathed in raggedly, held it and listened to his heart,  _ thump thump thump thump _ , then exhaled past the agony, focused on the breeze against his face, the expansion and collapse of his ribs.

“Want me to get the morphine?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, just…” he trailed off and grabbed a handful of sand, let it sift through his fingers, took note of the coarse granules against his palm. “Bring me closer?”

“Yeah, alright, let me…” Lestrade’s hands found their way back under Sherlock’s arms. “Is it okay if I-”

“Just do it.”

Lestrade sighed, but started pulling, and the two of them slowly made their way down to the water, leaving tracks in the sand behind them. Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Alright, here we go,” Lestrade warned when they stopped, and lowered Sherlock down, propping him up against Lestrade with care. “You okay?”

Sherlock laughed breathlessly and gritted his teeth against the ache in his leg. “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade.”

Lestrade’s wince was audible in the slight stiffening in his arms around Sherlock and the huff of a sigh against the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Right,” he said after a moment, low and rough with sorrow. 

Sherlock sagged against Lestrade and didn’t reply, staring out at the sea. The water lapped against his feet with each wave; Sherlock wondered what it would feel like to be completely submerged in it, sinking.  _ The pressure all around, the weight of my clothes dragging me slowly but irresistibly lower, the sweet, simple comfort of the end of it all, in, out, unchanging. _

“If it’s because you can’t go on cases anymore, Sherlock-”

“It’s not.”

“I can bring over files,” Lestrade insisted. “Cold cases, or new ones, I know it’s not as exciting but-”

“It’s not because of the cases, Lestrade,” Sherlock repeated, raising his voice over Lestrade’s. “You already know that.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Lestrade pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and held him tighter. “But christ, lad. I can’t just…”

“You want to save everyone,” Sherlock said, words heavy with weariness. “An admirable trait, but also your greatest weakness.”

“I’ve known you for seven years, Sherlock-- I’ve seen you stumble around London on a heroin high, shiver through withdrawal, I watched you go from a self destructive, posh twat to a great man with a brilliant brain, and then…..I saw you transform, Sherlock. You turned into a good man, and I don’t understand how you can ask us to let you go,” Lestrade said, voice cracking.

“It wouldn’t be any better if I spent my last days wasting away in Baker Street,” Sherlock replied sharply, then closed his eyes and clenched his teeth for a long moment, unwilling to have another argument _.  _ His fingers dug into the sand. The waves brushed up against him again, and Sherlock felt a tear slip out, slowly dripping down his cheek. “You saw what happened, last night,” he said at last, tonelessly. “You know what it’s going to be like, from now on.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade whispered. “I hate it, but...I do know. And last night….God, I was terrified. We were scrambling around in the dark, trying to find that damn bag. Could hear you screaming, even from over the hill-- I never realised, how much it...” Lestrade let out a shaky breath. “And I just want to say, I don’t know about John and Mycroft, but...if it’s what you want - what you  _ really _ want - I won’t stop you. Couldn’t, not after seeing you like that.”

Sherlock relaxed his fingers and let the sand slip out of his hold. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

Lestrade nodded, and after that they sat quietly, staring out at the cloudy horizon and dark water. Time slowed from a steady stream of sand in the hour glass to a drip, seconds and minutes stretching out until they blended together, unpunctuated by advancement.  _ In, out, unchanging. _ Sherlock’s eyes occasionally slipped closed, but he blinked them open once more before he could fall asleep;  _ I don’t want to miss any of this. _

The lull was broken by the sound of stirring from the tent, and John emerged with Mycroft close behind soon after. Sherlock waited for their footsteps to stop beside him and Lestrade before looking up-- both of them were exhausted, but John in particular looked heavy, defeated, his shoulders slumped and eyes sad. He sat by Sherlock without a word, and Mycroft did the same after a short hesitation. A silent conversation was held between Lestrade and John, spoken through eye contact and minute gestures.

John ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “Christ.”

Sherlock reached out and captured John’s fingers with his own, cold pale digits clasping warm, somewhat tanned ones. John looked up at the contact, features covered in uncertainty, and took hold tightly.

“Please. Will you do this for me?” 

John closed his eyes and sighed. “How am I going to….how-- how can I do that?”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “Let me go,” he whispered, because that was all he could think to say.

After a long moment, John nodded. “Okay. Okay,” he agreed, and stood. “Lestrade, will you help?”

“Yeah, course,” came the reply, and the two of them lifted Sherlock and walked him forward into the sea. When the water came up to their thighs, Sherlock tapped on Lestrade’s shoulder.

“I can do it from here.”

“Right, yeah,” Lestrade said thickly, and they let him go; the water only came up Sherlock’s thighs halfway, but it was good. The water was cold, icy tendrils of it seeping through Sherlock’s clothes as he went further out. His breaths became shorter, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His feet stopped touching the sandy bottom, and he kicked his legs to keep his head above water, determined to swim until he couldn’t.

The waves lapped at his face, and after a few moments he stopped and turned as he treaded water, unable to resist the temptation to look back, to reassure himself that even if he was leaving, even if he was doing this, John and Lestrade and Mycroft would only be as far away as the shore. The beach, however, was empty; at some point the three others had also crashed into the ocean, swimming towards him. John was in front, moving with a strong powerful stroke through the water, Mycroft and Lestrade falling behind as Mycroft grew weaker against the tide. By the time John reached him, Sherlock was panting from the effort to keep himself afloat and Lestrade had dragged Mycroft back to shore by the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to come,” Sherlock gasped, even as John helped support him, taking on some of Sherlock’s weight and letting him relax.

“Yes, I did,” John disagreed, stating it like an obvious fact instead of the brave, probably stupid thing it was; he looked stunning like this, in the ocean, just a little wild and...raw, with drops of water in his hair and sodden clothes clinging to his skin. It made Sherlock’s chest constrict in grief for what could have been (maybe), for the almost-something they were stuck at.

“Thank you,” he whispered (for everything), and John nodded in response with eyes full of pain. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s for a short moment - registering warmth and salt and the slightest amount of reciprocation - then took a shallow breath before letting his head slip under the water.

John followed him, appearing as a watery shape and pair of hands clasping his shoulders, helping prevent him from floating back up; the first thought Sherlock had was  _ cold _ , then the burn of salt in his eyes when he refused to close them. For long moments everything was blessedly calm, with the sound of water in his ears and John (loyal John, the only one who’d actually  _ help _ him do this) with him, by his side. But then he started to shiver, and his lungs began to protest, began to burn with the need for air-- and against his rational knowledge Sherlock opened his mouth to take a breath.

Water rushed into his mouth, down his windpipe, and Sherlock’s eyes flickered closed as he tried to cough, only to suck in more; he was overwhelmed by the taste of salt, by the oppressive weight of sea around him, and he instinctively kicked, trying to get to the surface, trying to  _ breathe _ . John’s hands were still around his arms, though, and when they tightened against Sherlock’s struggle Sherlock remembered why he was underwater, why John was there with him, and made himself go lax. He sucked in a deliberate mouthful of briny, frigid water, embracing the foreign sensation even as his body tried to expel it. _ In, out. In, out. _

It only took a few moments for his vision to start swimming, black and grey dots flashing behind his eyes. Sherlock raised a hand and entwined his fingers with John’s, realising suddenly how well they fit together (and that had always been true, hadn’t it? He and John, perfectly imperfect, complementary). The last thing he felt as everything went black was John’s grip, steady and sure, guiding him into the dark.  _ Unchanging. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments always welcome and appreciated :)


End file.
